ZioRomeo took Mariano by the neck, then collected Marciano in the same way, and we waited by the door that led to the underground vault. Venice didn’t have much of an underground…anything…because it was built on wood piles over the water, but there’s a crypt, and that crypt served as inspiration for our vaults. With the rising tides, though, a lot of our valuables were moved to Palermo for safe keeping.
Sistine still had the headpiece on when she took the lead. She held a keychain that was the size of her head, with a skeleton key that was the size of her hand, attached to it. She took one lastlook at Mariano, and then we all followed behind her as we made our way below the surface of the building.
Mamma and Mia shivered. The temperature was much cooler, and it smelled like old valuables and water. Sistine grabbed a torch from the wall and pointed forward.
“This way,” she said in a voice so soft, it didn’t even echo in the carnivorous space. She handed the torch to a man who was coming with us.
We’d all been here before, but we followed behind her like we hadn’t. The Cappello family took their job seriously, and this was part of it. Most branches of the family had their own jeweler in whichever part of Italy they were in, but since our branch was the head branch, we had the privilege of storing our things at this location, since it was the first location, and it had historical meaning.
Sistine stopped at a door that was aged by years and scuff marks, maybe even sword cuts, and directed the man who had followed our group to point the flaming torch at the lock. She stuck the key in and turned it, then shoved the handle, but it wasn’t budging. Mariano stepped up and shoved it open, then gave her a wink. She rolled her eyes.
Once inside, we all went in separate directions. This part of the vault was a labyrinth with separate rooms, lit by only the torches on the walls. Wooden signs over the doors gave directions on which way back to the exit. Some of the jewelry stored in this vault could be traced back to the 1600s. Each piece was hand packed and stored in glass boxes. The year and history of the item were listed below it.
My eyes found it right away.
A piece I’d always thought about, ever since the first time I’d been allowed to come down here. A ring that was shimmering in the darkness because of the wavering flames on the wall. It was designed to look like a seven-carat North Star.
It had been designed years ago by my great-grandfather, Marzio, for his wife, Grazia. Papà came to stand next to me. So did Padrino. Their shadows rose and fell with the flickering fires of the torches, throwing a red hue over all of us except for the ring. It gave off a rainbow of colors, brightening the darkness with its brilliance.
“This one,” I said to the man holding a book. It was a list of all the items in the vault.
“We will have to get permission for that,” he said in Italian, glancing down at the entry inside of the book, reading by the glow of burning firelight.
A voice echoed inside of the vault, deep and melodic, singing an Italian song. A few seconds later, it seemed like a cold wind had entered the underground rooms, and the torches hissed and swayed with it. Then a massive hand fell on my shoulder, squeezing. My grandfather’s face wavered with mine in the reflection of the glass.
“A reflection of my youth,” he said in Italian. His voice was like gravel against my skin, and the weight on my shoulder was like steel. But the heat from his palm seemed to burn through my coat, and even though I could see and hear the depth of his pride, I felt it even more. It was the heat in his palm burning through the layers and touching me someplace deep inside.
Padrino had taken a step back. My uncles took their places around him. My brothers around our uncles. My father kept his place on the other side of me.
I was the son of Brando Piero Fausti. The grandson of Luca Leone Fausti. Great grandson of Marzio Piero Fausti. Nephew of Rocco, Dario, and Romeo. Brother to Mia, Mariano, Marciano, and Maestro.
I am a Fausti.
And this ring had been worn by one who was a star in her own right.
It was going to be my honor for another star to wear it on her finger as a symbol of our love for eternity.
My grandfather nodded, as if to say,I approve of this. He gave the man with the book a nod, and just like that, my future seemed brighter.
Chapter 7
Matteo
Papà nodded to me as we made our way up to Bertrand Moro’s door. Usually, I would have been behind with my brothers, after my uncles, but Stella was mine to defend, and I knew my placement was symbolic. Someday, I would ascend the throne. Where my grandfather was standing in line, the head, I would too.
Padrino squeezed my shoulder, like he could read my mind, and it seemed as if we both stood a little taller.
Nonno fixed his coat, preparing to do what we came here to do. A brisk wind churned around us, and in the frigid air, I could smell a plethora of expensive colognes and hair gels coming from my family. Before Padrino could even knock, the door opened. After we’d all been welcomed in by Moro’s man, we all raised our eyebrows at the same time.
As far as I could tell, Bertrand Moro got caught in the pirate era and truly believed he was one. All his help wore pirate attire. When he came in looking like an extra out of the movieHook, hook and all, I could tell Marciano had a million questions. Papà gave me a side eye look, and I could’ve sworn it repeated the same thing but in a different way.Marciano’s head is filled with questions. We all loved water, but it was Marciano whoswam the most, and he was dazzled by anything connected to it. Including…pirates.
Moro gave a smile, and his gold teeth glinted when the sideway slanting rays from the sun hit them through the closed blinds. He took a step forward, and it was then I noticed he did it with a slight limp. “SignoreFausti!” He took Nonno’s hand in a warm embrace. “SignoreFausti! What a pleasure it is to see you after all these years. If you don’t mind me saying, you haven’t aged a bit! Unlike me. The sun has taken my skin prisoner.” He laughed, and I could hear the nervousness in it. “Oh, that is right! I’ve been out of society so long I have forgotten my manners. Let us dine!”
The man who opened the door for us opened another one, and we were invited to sit at a long, dark, wooden table that was already set with plates, goblets, silverware, and lit candles dripping wax. There were no windows, and the candlelight played off the thick silver plates in front of us. If Moro couldn’t conduct business at night, he was going to pretend it was night, at least.
His staff started to come out with dishes, and Nonno held a hand up. “This is not a visit to celebrate.”
Moro waved a hand, and his staff reversed their steps and left, taking any light with them.
